The first time...

The first time I remember being in a church was about a year or so after my father died. At the time of his death, I was only about four and my mother hastily explained that he had "gone to sleep." If there was a funeral, I was not part of it. I only have vague images of my father such as he and I having a tea party with stuffed animals. One day he is pouring me pretend tea and seemingly the next, he is gone.

My mother never recovered from losing my father. I lived in the wake of her profound sorrow for many years. The man whose image grew more and more hazy to me over the years, existed with astonishing clarity for my mother. Her schizophrenia helped to resurrect my father in daily hallucinations. When I found my mother talking to herself, it was usually the case that she was really talking to my father's spirit. I always wished I could see or talk to him too. My mind, perhaps lacking in imagination, was forever trapped in reality. I could never enter my mother's world of talking to the dead.

There seemed to be a place, though, where the real world and spirit world co-existed. I found a place where others also talked to their dead. Nobody will accuse you of being crazy if you speak to spirits within the safe confines of church.

And so my mother and I found ourselves in such a sanctuary one winter day. I remember the way my mother's coat smelled coming in from the cold, the snow still clinging to soft wet spots on her shoulders. I can see the inside of the church, the porcelain bowls of holy water near the entrance, the wooden pews, the stained glass windows, and the flickering of candles in the corner. I had no idea what it all meant. But I did feel the specialness of this comforting place.

I watched as my mother walked towards to corner of candles and slowly lit one. Her wavering breath sends the flames to dance, casting shadows upon the wall. It is a solemn moment which is lost upon my childish mind. I stand, entranced by how the light and shadows play. My eyes look upward to the height of this great cavern. I find myself mesmorized by a swirl of dust particles caught in the refractions of multi-colored stained glass light. I become so immersed in my sensory fantasy that I almost miss seeing my mother.

When my gaze finally holds her, she is so still, it seems time stops. I watch as a single tear makes its journey down her cheek, staining her otherwise porcelain face.